On being Korean-American

I often tell friends that I’m a poster child second generation Korean-American. And by that, I mean I have barely a Kindergarten-level literacy and speaking ability that rivals that of a toddler. “한국말 잘 못해요 죄송합니다” is the single phrase I have on lock (loose translation: “I can’t speak Korean well, I’m sorry!”). That and “소주 하나 주세요” (look it up) 

Growing up, we didn’t speak Korean at home. It’s not unpopular for immigrant parents to deem their native tongue a vestigial trait while raising their kids here. “We aren’t in Korea, so we don’t speak Korean. We are in America, so we speak English.” It’s pretty straightforward arithmetic to a kid desperate to fit in with a fLaT nOSe and sLaNTeD eYes growing up in the predominantly homogenous and conservative city of Huntington Beach. And I don’t blame my parents—what they did was in the name of their (our) best attempt to fit into an American culture in which it felt like we have something to prove. If anything, I have nothing but admiration and respect for what they did and had to endure for their children’s sakes. 

In middle school, I heard a friend once say that he wished he wasn’t Asian (read: that he was white instead). It’d be a little less fucked up if I (and a lot of Asian-Ams) didn’t have the same wish at some point in our lives, especially when we had been made acutely aware that there was a disproportionate amount more we had to do to socially fit in. See: the Lunchables complex.

The Asian-American identity is a mixed bag of confusion and complexity in identity. On one hand, you hold the deep cultural morals and beliefs your Korean father taught you growing up preciously close to your heart—and you’re proud of them. But on the other, you’re self-conscious of dressing the way you want and getting the haircut you like with the near guaranteed chance of people calling you a “kpop-lookin ass”—as if wearing joggers and the same uninspiring pair of white Common Projects with a cookie-cutter Supercuts hairstyle to look like everyone else in a tired Western social image is any better.

Now I’m 24 years old—an age well past the prime years linguists say are optimal for learning a new language—and have been teaching myself how to speak and write Korean. And after 20+ years of ignoring (willfully rejecting) my Korean identity, I’ve been having my own cultural reawakening. My grandma hears Korean for the first time from my mouth, asking her for the recipes she cooked for me as I grew up. The kimchi jjigae, bossam, and dakdoritang I cook at home heal my soul. I watch more dramas than any other TV genre. The turtle ship is singlehandedly the most badass thing ever. Finger hearts and peace signs are now cool. And most of you already know this, but I drink the stuff in the green bottles like it’s water. The Korean half of my Korean-American identity is something that I have come to really love and am unapologetically proud of. 

And I know I’m not alone; I look to my left and right and see so many other second gens having similar moments to me. Maybe we’re just of that age? Maybe there’s a cultural paradigm shift in being in the limbo space between two cultures? In any case, it’s inspiring to see others explore a part of us that we suppressed as largely self-unaware children. So yeah. In what seems to be an horrific, endless cycle of gut-wrenching news, I felt compelled to share a personal story. This isn’t a call to action or an education reshare on how you can help—there are much many more well-equipped resources like @stopaapihate for that.

I believe speaking my truth in light of the recent (and longstanding) events is to tell this story—one that may be mine, but I’m willing to bet will resonate deeply with either you or others you may know, regardless of your background. Stories are powerful things to give perspective and create connection, and we know we can all use a little bit more of that right now. If anyone (truly, anyone) else feels compelled to tell their story, I know I’d love to see and hear it too.

But yeah, here’s a picture of me with my parents on my first birthday. Gratitude to them is what I feel looking back and unapology for who I am tomorrow is what I feel looking forward.

Circa Spring 2021